


What is Freedom to an Absentee?

by Anonymous



Series: Inherited Means it's Ours to Change [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: A snippet of another perspective from my "wilbur blew up the festival" fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extremely canon divergent - Reading the first work in the series is recommended, Gen, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: ("What the hell is this?"Tubbo turned from his booth, hands caked in sawdust and his brow smeared with bright yellow, the remnants of the bees he had been painting."It's your honey jar, Schlatt!")OrSchlatt opened his eyes after the festival turned to hell, and three things were made immediately, abundantly clear.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Inherited Means it's Ours to Change [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991845
Comments: 12
Kudos: 325
Collections: Anonymous





	What is Freedom to an Absentee?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there.
> 
> If you're reading this, you either stumbled upon this fic by scrolling the tags or you came from my actual story, titled "What World Have We Inherited". If you're from the former group, I HIGHLY recommend that you read the other fic first, because while it is still in progress, there is context there that is not given here as this fic and the fic it relies upon are almost entirely canon divergent. (This is because the fic itself was drafted prior to the actual festival event!) This is a peek into another perspective from an unspoken part of that story. I'll be placing this into a series with the origin fic for your reading pleasure, so please check it out for much needed context. 
> 
> If you're from the latter group, then surprise! I'm sure you weren't expecting this, and I apologize for the change in content haha. I assure you that I am working hard at the next chapter of the actual story as we speak. This was just an interlude that absolutely would not leave my head until I wrote it, and I had no way of forcing it into the main plotline naturally.
> 
> With that extraordinarily long authors note done, please enjoy the fic. Comments, notes, and feedback are all greatly appreciated.

_"What the hell is this?"_

_Tubbo turned from his booth, hands caked in sawdust and his brow smeared with bright yellow, the remnants of the bees he'd been painting. He glanced up with wide eyes, and Schlatt saw the moment he spotted what the ram horned man was holding out — a jar of honey that had been placed on his desk, adorned with two clay horns._

_"It's your honey jar, Schlatt!"_

_"I meant the horns, Tubbo."_

_Understanding dawned on his face like a physical wave, and Tubbo brightened considerably as he whirled around with newfound enthusiasm._

_"Everyone's jar has something like that, see?"_

_Tubbo gestured toward the table, to the line of evenly spaced and labeled jars of honey that sat before the rows of the unlabeled. He pointed in time with his speech, gesturing cheerily at the decor that littered his festival booth._

_"Nikki's got a bow, Fundy's got this wool tail on it, Quackity's got a tiny beanie. Took me a while to knit that one, but it worked out super well. And over here we have the not labeled ones, they're a bit crooked but they'll be half off for a reason, and..."_

_Tubbo talked and talked and talked, describing his process in detail that grew so exact that Schlatt stopped keeping up. Instead he turned the little jar of natural, golden sugar in between his fingers. The tiny clay horns stuck out at the sides, a near perfect miniature mirror of his own._

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$

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(In another universe, it was the day of the festival. Schlatt stood in front of a mirror with Quackity a shadow by his side, both of them with hardened frowns on their faces. Out of the spotlight, they clenched their fists around handfuls of yellow concrete powder. Schlatt's yellow eyes were dulled to near amber with rage, and Quackity shifted beside him with a heavy heart. Two rooms over, Tubbo scrawled final notes for a false speech to a false celebration, oblivious to the danger that waited for him. 

In another still, it was the day of the festival. Schlatt sat with Tubbo by his side, his fingers interlocked under his chin and propped up by his elbows as Tubbo spoke about what Pogtopia had planned. He betrayed their secrets in wild gestures and detailed explanations. The kid was bitter, more than Schlatt could have ever imagined he would be. Schlatt supposed that was what made him such an effective triple-agent, being underestimated to the point of foolishness. _One man's trash,_ he thought smugly to himself, _as they say._

In yet another universe, it was the day of the festival. Schlatt was drunker than usual as he threw an arm around Tubbo's shoulders. He was smiling wider than he had in years, lifted up high by the support of a nation. He did not see — had never seen — the strained edge to Tubbo's gentle smile. He was drunk and the world was bright, and he had a trusted advisor at his side. The knife would ache, but for the moment he was blissfully happy, oblivious and blind.

In another universe, adjacent but not quite the same, it was the day of the festival that did not exist. Schlatt was weary and tired and he was not the president of anything at all. He was soaked to the bone, as he always seemed to be. He had shed his blazer and long since lost his tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he once again dove into an impossible ocean and called out a name that he almost couldn't recall. There was no answer. The person he sought was long gone, lived a life in a world he would never see. Built a nation he would never know. 

It was the day of the explosions. Schlatt knelt on the ground with his arms stiff and aching, dirt crusted fingernails and a half broken horn. His back ached from burns that weren't as bad as they should have been. He trembled from exhaustion, from the lack of bursting adrenaline and terrified screaming, and he clutched two vibrant ties to his chest, yellow eyes wide and blank and ears ringing with noise he couldn't distinguish from reality. They clashed with his — green and blue a violent contrast to the red satin — soaked and ashen where it hung from his neck.)

\-----

$

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Schlatt opened his eyes days — weeks, months — after the festival went to hell, and three things were immediately made abundantly clear. 

One. Last afternoon was not a dream. He had not imagined stumbling upon a fresh face — upon a bruised and distinctly different Tommy, fallen tree at his side and Wilbur nowhere to be found. He had not imagined the way he _ran,_ the one thing he had never once seen Tommy do. He had not imagined the confusion, nor the terror. These facts did not ease his mind. 

Two. Technoblade was waiting for him outside of a wall of iron bars, sat with his elbows pinned on his knees and a sword resting at his side. Technoblade did not look happy. 

Three. His armour was gone, and he was defenseless. 

Techno turned to stare at him, and when their eyes met Schlatt rearranged his list. 

One. Yesterday was not a dream.

Two. Technoblade was waiting, watching, and he was not happy. 

(Three. Schlatt was very, very afraid.)

His first instinct was to bare his teeth, to snark and smile and put on a show, to grin like spun sugar and make offers for unorganized compromise. His second instinct was to cower, to flee or freeze and hope desperately that the danger would pass along. He'd spent years smothering those instincts, crushed them beneath his polished dress shoes until they tasted like unrecognizable garbage. He hated how they rose in him, squashed his heart with their power and whispered that he needed to run. 

_Run where, genius?_ He sneered to himself as he swept his gaze over what amounted to a cell, _where the hell would you go?_

He didn't move. He ignored all of his instincts and dug his fingers into the blankets instead, tried to breathe through the rabbit-pace of his fear and hoped that Technoblade couldn't hear it. For the first time since he'd known the man, Technoblade spoke first. 

"You're awake." 

He was, and he wished he was anything but. 

Techno shifted and stood, and despite himself Schlatt's shoulders stiffened like wooden boards. There were iron bars between them, and it was a testament to his terror that he was grateful for them instead of indignant. Schlatt's prison, or an altercation with an angry Technoblade. The choice was absurdly easy, even in its nonexistence. 

"And you're alive." 

Schlatt bit out dry words a beat too late, shoved at the mental block until his stupid mouth would say something normal. His throat ached from disuse, and it stung near where the hair-thin blade had grazed it. He'd been blinded — _dark, so dark why was it dark_ — but he knew the feeling of metal and he knew the weight of a threat. The memory made his vision spin and he forced it away with near frantic abandon. He needed to see; he needed to watch, he needed to he needed to he needed—

"Technoblade never dies." 

The monotone broke his flurrying thoughts, and he swallowed hard. Techno didn't look like he'd noticed his lapse in attention — he could tell, because he could see his face — and it was enough to embolden Schlatt into a weak laugh. 

"That is still the dumbest fucking catchphrase," he choked, tried to recover with a pasted on smile, "it wouldn't work for anyone else." 

It wouldn't work for anyone else, but it worked for Technoblade. The words that would have sounded flippantly cocky and uselessly arrogant tasted like years of iron spilled and lives lost instead. Always the opponent, never Technoblade. _Technoblade never dies, Blood for the Blood God._ Yesterday, Schlatt had been the opponent. He didn't know how the hell he got out alive. Schlatt wasn't foolish, sentimental, or hypocritical enough to chalk it up to a tribute to old contracts. In the business of blood money, old times were left in the ages they surfaced in. 

( _A running theme,_ his mind whispered, _an endlessly reoccurring nightmare._ The small weight of fabric scraps in the pockets of his slacks burned against his leg, and he had to force himself not to look.) 

Techno shrugged an uncaring shoulder, expression flat and unimpressed. That was something else that he'd known about the man — he was never impressed with the show that Schlatt would put on. Sure he may have cracked a smile, laughed once or twice at something that fit his particular style, but he was never swept away by Schlatt's words or his manipulations. He did what he wanted, with no mercy spiced in-between. 

Schlatt swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat. 

"So," he said, once the itch of the silence finally became too much to tolerate, "Where… uh. Where exactly are we?" 

The room that his cell was in was dark, an extreme juxtaposition to the bright glow of the torches that littered his walls. That being said, what he could see was very clearly all stone. Underground. 

"None of your concern," Techno answered in that same god-damned monotone, "doesn't matter. You won't be leavin' the cell." The sword vanished, replaced by a shimmering pickaxe of the same make as the blade. The words were suddenly extremely ominous, strangled him with unspoken threats as he tried to fully comprehend what was happening. 

Schlatt's skin itched and he felt vaguely sick, even as he checked the back of his hands if only to assuage his creeping paranoia — to silence the whispers that warned of _dark, dark potions, dark eyes, and darker voids_. He finally broke flickering eye contact and focused instead on the wall, on the bright light of ever burning torches instead of the flickering weight of the loss of freedom. 

( _Freedom. Had he been free?_ ) 

Techno didn't say anything else after that, and Schlatt felt like his body was near combustion with every stiff movement. By the time Technoblade elected to vanish somewhere into the dark of whatever bunker they'd thrown him in, Schlatt was barely present enough to notice. 

(He wondered if his freedom mattered at all. Within the pocket of his slacks his mistakes burned against his skin, and he wondered if even he cared.)

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$

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**Author's Note:**

> Just as a final note! If you've enjoyed this little fic and would be willing to seek out something a bit meatier, I once again must encourage you to check out the fic it orginiated from if you haven't already. This series was my first foray into the world of fanfic, and I would greatly appreciate if you'd give it a look. As of right now, the original fic sits at about 24,000 words, and I'm working hard to get another chapter out ASAP. Thank you kindly for your time <3


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